Pleasantries out of the way, Yefrem plunged straight into the examination of witnesses. Nenilushka was summoned first. With wailing and wild looks, the girl was dragged by Harald himself to the foot of the throne.
In her own words, demanded Yefrem, looking down on her from his great height like Almighty God himself, what had she witnessed on the night in question? Could she point to the two persons she had seen? Could she describe for him their indecent acts and lewd speech?
But the poor girl, made even more idiotic by fear, only howled until Yefrem, with an angry wave of the hand, dismissed her. “Let it be recorded,” he said, “that the testimony of the dwarf, Nenilushka Putschavna, was communicated in private to her mistress, the Lady Yelisaveta Yaroslavna, whose account of it, already taken on oath, we do accept without question.”
The scribe at his desk scratched away furiously.
Then, smoothing his features into some sickening imitation of sweetness, the bishop fixed his eye on Ingigerd and said, “Before hearing testimony of any other persons in this case, we are moved by the example of Our Savior, who forgave Mary Magdalene the harlot, to turn to our daughter, Ingigerd, and entreat her, here in the sight of all, to prostrate herself before God, and, watering the ground with her tears, to make full and public confession of her most hideous sins.”
Ingigerd, by way of answer, spat out the single word, “Eunuch!”
In the moment of uneasy silence that followed this exchange of sentiments, the rumble of the crowd milling outside sounded louder and more ominous. Yefrem’s small eyes darted to the door, to the window. He dabbed at his brow which was suddenly damp with sweat. Could it be that our bishop was not a physically brave man?
To be truthful, I was not feeling very brave myself, anticipating that I would be the next one summoned to the foot of the throne. Even if no one stuck a knife in me between now and then, I was sure that I would not be allowed to simply give my testimony. Words meant nothing if they weren’t extracted by torture.
But, no, it was Putscha who was wanted next.
“The princess’s dog,” sneered Yefrem, leaning forward in his seat with his hand on his knee. “The evil assistant in all her depravity. Already bearing God’s curse upon your body, you plunged with her into every species of crime, did you not? Nothing was concealed from you. You can tell us much about her fornication with the outlander, Odd Thorvaldsson, and other sins just as vile, can’t you? Show him the knout.”
The flogger, a burly fellow in the mayor’s retinue, stepped forward. In his hand he held a thick staff to which was attached, by a swivel-ring, three feet of knotted rawhide, which had been boiled in milk to give it the hardness of metal. He drew it lovingly across his palm. I reckoned he could cut the hide off a bison with half a dozen strokes of that murderous flail.
“Strip him!” cried the bishop.
The dwarf’s jacket and shirt were ripped down the back, exposing the bunched muscles of his powerful torso. A militiaman stooped over to make a whipping platform of his back, while another lifted Putscha up and spread-eagled him in such a way that the ‘platform’ could grip the dwarf’s wrists over his shoulders. The flogger took up his position behind them and massaged his arm.
The first blow opened a gash from shoulder to waist. And so did the next one, and the next; each stroke skillfully aimed at a different spot. After the fifth, the bishop asked whether Putscha had ever witnessed a secret meeting between the princess and any man, be it me or another.
The dwarf was mute.
After the eighth stroke the question was repeated.
By now, Putscha’s back was a bloody red mess, and drops of his blood spattered the floor, the dais, and all the nearer bystanders. Still he would not answer. The flogging continued, nine strokes, ten … The little man bore it with unbelievable fortitude. Not a single groan escaped him, although his daughter howled louder at every blow. After the twelfth the flogger looked questioningly at the bishop as if to say, Another might kill him.
Yefrem nodded and Putscha was allowed to slide to the floor. A guard dragged him back to the prisoner’s dock, leaving a sticky, red smear on the floor, and dropped him at my feet. He was conscious enough to show me a twisted smile: blood flowed from his lips and tongue which he had chewed to shreds.
Throughout this ordeal, Inge had watched the suffering of her servant without a flicker of emotion. After all, was not his misshapen little body fashioned by God to be her footstool? And does one weep for a footstool?
“We will return to the dwarf later,” said the bishop.
My turn now, thought I. And it will be worth the beating to confess—not to my affair with Inge but to Dyuk’s intrigue with Harald. After Inge’s attempt on Harald’s life, you recall, Dag had decided to reach out to the boyar faction that hated her, and I volunteered to arrange the first meeting. Since then, there had been several more. Oh, I had things to confess about the mayor and Harald that Yaroslav would hear with great displeasure. Their hatred of the princess seemed to have driven this rather obvious point clear out of their heads. Dyuk might weather the storm but for Harald, at least, it would mean banishment from Gardariki. Without either Norwegian or Swedish fighters to support him, Harald was now powerless and useless.
But my moment was not yet.
“Fetch the woman, Thordis,” the bishop commanded. A pair of guards dragged her from Ingigerd’s side.
“Now then, Thordis Helgasdottir,” said Yefrem, making his voice mild, though without disguising the menace in it, “answer me truthfully, as you love God, and no harm will come to you. Have you been a companion to the Princess Ingigerd from her babyhood until this day?”
“Yes,” she answered in a whisper.
“And are you her chief confidante in all things whatsoever?”
Thordis hesitated. In the silence, sounds of battle could be heard outside. The mayor, followed by several of his men, raced out the front door and down the stairs. I observed the bishop mop his brow again.
“Answer me, woman, I warn you. Have you not been a partner in all her depravities? And are you not, moreover, skilled in all manner of potions and charms, both of the sort that sicken and the sort that bind? Are you not, in fact, a witch?”
That fearful word, as good as a death sentence.
The bishop was after more than just adultery. If it could be proved that Ingigerd had had commerce with a witch, she would suffer a far nastier fate than dragging out her life behind convent walls. Probably, Yefrem was mistaken as far as Thordis was concerned, but that wouldn’t save the old woman from torture. Only Inge could do that by confessing her visits to the village babushkas.
“No, may the Virgin help me!”
“Virgin, is it? And why should the Blessed Virgin help you? Flog her!”
“Lady!” Thordis shrieked, twisting her body to look at her mistress.
I looked too. Could Inge watch this and not pity the woman who had dressed, bathed, fed, and played with her from infancy? But Thordis, like Putscha, existed only to serve her, and there was no limit fixed to this service but death. The thing that was incredible to me was that they believed it as much as she did, for both of them could have saved themselves by testifying against her.
Like the dwarf, the old woman was stripped to the waist and spread-eagled on the guard’s broad back. Again the knout whistled and cracked. Her body stiffened, she gave out a cry like a tortured house cat.
I can scarcely account for what I did then. After all, she was only a woman and no kin of mine, and if her own mistress wouldn’t save her, why should I? But somehow I seemed to feel the cold breath of Einar Tree-Foot on my neck. He had cared for her—or anyway, she for him.
“Stop it, Bishop,” I shouted. “Let her go, she had nothing to do with any of it. I will tell you what Nenilushka saw that night.”
“Yefrem!” Inge made a sudden dash to the dais, getting there ahead of me. “Now I must speak! To save this young idiot from his folly,” she indicated me with a shaking forefinger, “I have
kept silent because I feel in part to blame for his attack on me. You see, we happened to be talking one evening, quite innocently, when this brainless boy, misunderstanding a careless word of mine, took it as an invitation to go farther. Absurd, but he is a vain youth, as anyone can see. That night, the night Nenilushka was in my chamber—not hiding, as they allege, but prattling to me about something or other in her childish way while she waited for her father—this young man burst in, stinking of strong ale, shut the door behind him and overpowered me, ripping off my shift, and forcing himself between my legs. Nenilushka, may heaven bless her, rushed out the door to find help. Seeing this, Odd became frightened and ran away. A moment later Putscha came in to say that he’d just passed Odd on the stairs and that the brute had knocked him down. Now you have the truth of what Nenilushka saw; such a sight as to rob the poor thing of the little brain she had. Small wonder if her account of it is so muddled. Who could think for one instant that I would take this sorry fellow for a lover? I have told you all the truth, now. Order the rapist to hold his filthy tongue and release my nurse at once.”
“Lord Bishop,” interrupted the flogger, “pardon my clumsiness. The old woman is dead.”
I goggled at Inge. In my slight experience of life I had never known a woman, and scarcely a man, to be so bold a liar. But before I could find voice to answer her, another did: “Bitch! Whore!” Yelisaveta screeched, “Rape, d’you say? No man need rape you! Tell us, mother, did Olaf rape you or wasn’t it the other way round?”
In the wink of an eye mother and daughter were on the floor, clawing and pummeling each other as they rolled over and over in a tangle of skirts and long hair. Militiamen and deacons together barely managed to drag them apart. Their clothing torn and their faces scratched, they thrashed and bared their teeth. If either of them had worn a knife, as women often do, one of them surely would have lain bleeding out her life on the floor.
Now everyone was up and shouting. Here came purple-faced Ragnvald rushing to the dais, demanding, “Put Odd to the torture, Bishop! Make him confess to attacking my cousin. You hesitate because it would leave you with no case for adultery. Well, here’s what we do to molesters of noblewomen women in my city!”
He thrust at my belly with his dagger, but a militiaman struck his arm aside and others stepped between us. The Jarl of Aldeigjuborg shook his fist and screamed, “I’ll have his life before the sun sets, you see if I don’t!”
“No, Jarl, that’s a pleasure I’ve promised myself.” This was Harald. He towered over us, holding in his hand the knout, which he had taken from the flogger. As Ragnvald turned, Harald struck at his legs, knocking them out from under him. In his pain the jarl dropped his dagger and scuttled as fast as he could out of harm’s way.
Now Harald and I were face to face and I could do no more than spit at him. He laughed. “Let’s see if you’re half the man Putscha was.” The knout slashed down across my left shoulder. I felt the shock of that blow all the way to the soles of my feet.
Tears sprang to my eyes, I swallowed hard and braced myself for another blow, but at that moment the door flew open and a breathless militiaman stumbled in, crying, “The Swedes and Norwegians have crossed the river! We’re routed. The mayor says to get away—the princess under guard to his dvor, the skald and the dwarf back to the jail!”
“You milk-sucking babies,” roared Harald, “must I do everything for you!” He took one more cut at my face with the knout, but his aim was off. The guard at my side staggered away, clutching the place where his ear had been. Flinging the knout away and drawing his long sword, he raced for the door. Even without a horde of warriors at his back Harald was formidable.
“Out through the kitchen to the back stair!” cried Bishop Yefrem, and showed us the way by being the first to bolt in that direction. The mayor’s guards herded us behind him while the flogger applied his knout to our backs.
26
Lyudmila
Hurrying us through streets that were thick with fighters, the mayor’s men returned Putscha and me to the jail, and formed a cordon around it.
I can scarcely describe my feelings. As much as the blow that Harald dealt me seared my flesh, Inge’s words burned still hotter in my brain. Her betrayal was the more unforgivable. Harald was goaded by anger and humiliation which any man may feel. But she! From the very start she’d done nothing but lie to me, and now, just as coolly, lied about me.
As I paced my cell in silent rage, I barely noticed the shouting and clash of arms that sounded nearby—now approaching, now receding, then again coming nearer. It was about twilight that the street directly outside the jail erupted in fighting between the Rus and the hated outlanders. Torches flared, bodies lurched back and forth across the narrow field of vision afforded by our window, and the night rang with shouts.
The glimmering of a chance to escape this wooden prison released me from the prison of my thoughts. Here, at least, was something I could grapple with. “Putscha! Get up!”
He lay, as he had for hours, on his stomach, with his arms outspread; his back livid and oozing blood.
“Let me be.”
“No, listen. We must run for it now while the guards are busy defending themselves; we won’t get a second chance. Here, stand on my shoulders. Your hand is small enough to reach up between the bars of the grating and pull out the bolt. Then lift up the grate and throw down the rope ladder.”
“I can’t move, I tell you!”
From outside came the footsteps of more men running, and the clangor of arms grew louder.
“Up you get, little man—scream all you like, you won’t be heard above the noise outside.”
Scream he did, as I jerked him to his feet and swung him up in the air with a hand under each arm.
“Never mind the pain.”
“What d’you know about pain?” he hissed between clenched teeth.
“Now, now. If it were Ingigerd here instead of me, she’d be standing on your shoulders and you’d be thanking her for the privilege. Feet on my shoulders, now. All right, I’ve got your ankles.” His height added to mine—and neither of us tall—just barely brought his fingers in reach of the bars. “Can you get your hand between them?”
He sucked his breath between his teeth and grunted against the pain. A mere Norseman would have screamed the house down.
“Good fellow! Can you feel the bolt?”
“I have it but it won’t come.”
“Putscha, look out, a torch! Push it away, man!”
“Can’t, too far—”
A flaming brand had landed on the grating. Someone—Swede or Norwegian—meant to cook us. An ember drifted down onto the straw-covered floor, just beyond the reach of my foot.
“The bolt, Putscha, as you hope to live, pull harder!”
A wisp of smoke curled upwards from the straw.
“No—no—wait, I have it!”
“Right. Feet in my hands, now, I’m going to lift you straight up. That’s it, knees on the ledge, keep low or they’ll see you from the street. Can you see the rope anywhere?”
With my hands free, I turned to stamping out the fire—only to send bits of flaming straw whirling in all directions. With a rush and crackle the floor burst into flame in a dozen places at once. In a flash of memory, I was back in my father’s house, our enemies screaming outside, the roof collapsing in flames, my mother’s hair burning, the flames scorching my feet …
My blood turned to water. I screamed and screamed again. “The rope, the rope, hurry, damn you!”
But, instead, the dwarf glared down at me from his safe perch, his bloody lips twisted in a sneer. “Burn, is it? I, Putscha, could take twelve strokes of the knout for all you cared. Twelve strokes, outlander, there’s burning for you. Why shouldn’t I let you burn?”
I danced amid the leaping flames. Seeking escape too, were the roaches and rats—whole tribes of them hidden in the straw. They climbed my legs, crawled under my shirt, and clung to my back.
“For pity’s
sake, Putscha, don’t do this to me!”
“What, won’t you call me ‘little man,’? I do love to be so addressed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, I’m sure your sorry now. Oh, yes.”
“Please, please, Putschaaa!”
“‘Please’ is it? I don’t reckon there are many you’ve said that to.” He squinted at me against the rising smoke. “Shall I let you live, then? Well, brave druzhinik, here’s your rope.”
I leapt for it and climbed with the strength that only terror lends us; I and pounds of frenzied rats who sank their claws into me. But my cell-mates I could not carry. The woman, her screaming baby under her arm, hung on my belt. I kicked her away—I was long past caring for any human being but myself. I reached the top with the seat of my pants scorched. The rats and other vermin departed at once for safer havens.
All around me buildings flared and the air was thick with flying ash, to which was added the smoke that billowed up from our cell. I could hear the screams of those wretches we had left below.
“Putscha, you filthy little brute, I’ll pay you back for this!” On hands and knees, I made a grab for him, intending to push him back into the flames.
“Hands off!” he warned, backing away with his tiny fists raised in self-defense.
I grabbed for his throat but missed.
“You aren’t safe yet, Haraldsskald. Where will you go, eh? Where will you hide so your master doesn’t find you?” Again, with an acrobat’s quickness, he dodged out of reach. “But I know a place where we can lie low. Food and shelter, anything you like—”
Smoke stung my eyes, the wooden planks under my hands and knees were hot. This was senseless; I could never catch him up here.
“Follow me if you dare!” He made a running jump from the roof. Whether to strangle him or accept his promise of safety amounted to the same decision: I must follow.
The Ice Queen Page 25